


Rarely Plain and Never Simple

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Leon the Unofficial Secret Keeper, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlioske-friendly, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Mutual Pining, Truth Spells, Yule, baby Aithusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: For once, it would be nice if Merlin’s favourite winter festival could pass without having to fend off any deadly magical threats. But something about Yule just seems to bring out the absolute worst in people. Year after year, he enters the season full of hope for an enjoyable party, only for his hopes to be dashed by a deluge of disasters. Still, despite being waylaid by an overly perceptive knight, a curious prince, and a naughty baby dragon, he is cautiously optimistic that this year will be different... until a sorcerer arrives at the citadel who threatens to punch a hole in all his dreams…
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 194
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	Rarely Plain and Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chamaenerion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamaenerion/gifts).



> Dear chamaenerion  
> It has been such a pleasure writing this fluffy winter festival story for you. I took your prompt about Leon the Secret Keeper and ran with it… I hope you enjoy it!  
> With huge thanks to my beta readers archaeologist_d, Wasp and CLea2011 and cheerleader LFB72 for your kind words of encouragement :) Any remaining errors, inconsistencies, plot holes, repetitions or downright sillinesses are all mine.  
> Dearest Mods - thank you once again for all your hard work running this fabulous and much beloved fest. For Camelot!  
>  _The truth is rarely plain and never simple ~ Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest)_

Merlin squinted at the prickly leaf, sucking his sore finger into his mouth and thinking dark thoughts about the viciousness of holly trees. Perhaps the red colour of holly berries came from the bloodstains of earlier generations of Camelot's manservants, also pressed into this Yuletide duty by their evil uncles. Perhaps some long-ago sorceress, after a lean harvest, cursed all holly trees to attack such manservants forever. 

“Merlin, would you pass me the lavender oil?” Gaius looked up from treating a small but painful burn blister on the head cook’s finger. "Hold still a moment, Audrey."

With a heavy sigh, Merlin put down the festive wreath, taking care not to drop any decorative berries on the floor where they could spoil, and got up to retrieve the last pot of lavender oil from the shelf.

“It’s getting a bit low.” He frowned at it. It was nearly empty.

“Well, it’s lucky for us that you can go down to the cellars and get some more dried lavender, then!” said Gaius, with a minor tilt to his eyebrow that hinted at future sternness if Merlin were to argue.

Ugh. The cellars were full of spiders. Still, searching for lavender was by no means the worst yuletide activity that he would be forced into. Despite the relatively quiet run-up to the midwinter festival so far, Merlin was under no illusions about the remainder of the season. Although, for once, it would be nice if Merlin could enjoy his favourite winter festival without having to protect Prince Prat from some vengeful sorcerer or another. After some years in the prince’s service, though, he was not optimistic. Something about Yule, with its traditions of hospitality, gift giving and kindness, of new beginnings and the cycle of life, just seemed to bring out the absolute worst in people.

Take last year, for example. Last year, a pixie infiltrated the king’s chambers and set fire to all Uther’s favourite tapestries. And the year before that? A disgruntled sorcerer attempted to kidnap Prince Clotpole, with unpleasant consequences, if one could refer to a beheading as unpleasant. For although Prince Dollophead escaped unscathed (thanks to Merlin), and the magic user was captured (Merlin again) the resulting beheading was not pleasant for the hapless (or indeed now headless) magic user, nor for any other magic users standing nearby (... also, Merlin).

“There, my dear. That might sting a little at first, I’m afraid. Give it a moment or two, then I’ll bind it again." Bending over Audrey’s hand, Gaius administered the last few drops out of the bottle. "Merlin, you must go down to the cellar after you’ve finished making those wreaths. And don't roll your eyes like that.”

"I wasn't rolling my eyes."

Oh well. At least it was lavender. And not more bloody holly. Unlike holly, lavender did not deliberately set out to prickle his fingers and scratch his forearms. And unlike some of the more esoteric herbs that Gaius kept in the cellar, the lavender smelled nice. It reminded him of Prince Cabbagehead’s baths. Arthur liked lavender sprinkled on the surface of his bathwater, and therefore the fragrance held very pleasant connotations, related to the milky skin and honey-gold hairs that adorned the shapely curves of Prince Turnipbrain's shapely thighs and even shapelier bum.

Someone knocked on the door with a polite crisp rap of the knuckles. As usual at this time of year, a steady stream of patients was trickling into Gaius’s quarters with an array of minor complaints and agues, plus those bringing requests from the royal household for remedies to be used in the day to day running of the citadel.

“Ah. Sir Leon," said Gaius. "Do come in and take a seat. Is it anything urgent?”

“No, no,” said Sir Leon, hovering next to the door before closing it gently behind him. “Nothing important. Prince Arthur sent me to fetch some of that nice-smelling oil you keep for burns.”

“Ah. You mean lavender oil?” 

“Yes that’s it. He’s got a um.... _minor_... um... burn that he sustained during um… training, but it can wait a minute or two.” Leon sat on the bench, crossing his legs.

“Is Arthur all right? I could…” Merlin half rose, concerned. How typical of Arthur to underplay an injury. Merlin would not be half as concerned if the cabbagehead came himself, moaning and kicking up a fuss. “How on earth has he managed to burn himself during training? Was it the flaming arrows again? I knew I shouldn’t leave the clotpole to do training without me to look after him!” 

“No, no,” said Leon, indicating that Merlin should sit down. “It’s really tiny. He expressly said that he did not want you… ahem. Troubled. And that you were not to be disturbed in your preparations for the feasting.”

“Now I’m really worried.” Merlin settled slowly back into his chair, biting his lip. “That sounds almost polite.”

“I was paraphrasing.” Leon grinned. “Actually, he may have said something a tad more direct.”

“Let me guess.” Merlin grinned back, relieved. “Did it have the word _idiot_ in it?”

“Well, if you must know, and I apologise for the words, which are his, not mine, he said, and I quote, sorry Merlin, but you did ask. He said... that he did not want that mother hen, Merlin, fussing, clucking and tut-tutting over a teensy, insignificant injury in a blatant attempt to get out of doing his chores.”

“That does sound more like him.” Reassured, Merlin chuckled and bent over the wreath.

Meanwhile, Gaius finished wrapping a small bandage around Audrey’s finger. “There, Audrey. Now do try to avoid getting it wet, there’s a dear.”

“I will, Master Gaius, sir, thank you, sir." But she didn't leave, instead eyeing Merlin darkly as she rose, smoothing her skirts with her unbandaged hand.

"Was there anything else?" Gaius lifted a curious eyebrow.

"Just one thing, sir, Master Gaius, if you please, there is just one thing, sir. I'll thank you for keepin' that thievin’ assistant o' yourn away from my dumplin’s.” She nodded at Merlin, who did his best to look innocent.

"Your... _dumplings_?" Gaius’s eyebrow nudged up another notch.

"Yes sir. Him's been thievin' them again, sir. Him and that long-haired layabout of a Sir Gwaine, may he rot, sir, with no disrespect to your excellency and the other knights, Sir Leon, sir. Sir Percival I can forgive sir, with all them muscles he needs it, so he does, but that Gwaine…" Shaking her head, she drew in her breath through her teeth, releasing it in a disapproving huff.

Merlin winced. Audrey was referring to an incident the previous morning, in which Merlin successfully swiped several of said items from under Audrey’s nose with help from Gwaine and Percival, with the contraband divided equally among the conspirators. The remaining few still occupied a muslin cloth in his satchel.

Unlike the knights, Merlin didn’t really like Audrey’s dumplings, but he did have a particular reason for wanting to keep a portion. A small, top secret reason. A magical and above all hungry reason. One with wings and a propensity for raising fire, that was currently residing in a well- hidden cave in the hills above Camelot, having outgrown Merlin’s cupboard some days ago. Although it wasn’t Merlin's fault that after he called forth the tiny dragon from its egg, the creature adopted Merlin and became dependent on him for food, he was not sure that Uther would see things that way. In short, it was the sort of reason that would result in him getting flogged or worse if discovered, and Merlin valued the convenience of keeping his head upon his shoulders. So, he opened his mouth to deny everything... only to be interrupted, to his great surprise, by Leon.

“Alas, dear Audrey. I fear that was my fault,” Leon said, spreading his hands in an apologetic arc. “I’m so sorry. Sir Gwaine and I had a bet on, and I encouraged him to procure the items. Merlin was a mere hapless accomplice.”

Merlin gaped but then quickly clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t know what was more astonishing: the fact that Leon was on first name terms with Cook, or the fact that he was willing to take the blame for the incident. Either way, Merlin was not one to look a gift excuse in the mouth, as it were.

Audrey, meanwhile, turned to Leon. Merlin winced in anticipation of the expected explosion of wrath that Audrey was famous for, but it never came. Instead, she simpered and fluttered her lashes at him.

Camelot was full of surprises, today.

“Ah, well, Sir Leon!” she said with a coquettish smile and a flounce of her skirts. “Why didn’t you say? You can raid my dumplin’s any time. But keep that thievin’ layabout Gwaine away. And as for you…” She turned the full force of her glare on Merlin. “I have my eye on you. Thank you, Master Gaius, sir.”

And with a final nod at the physician, she flounced out of the room, nose in the air.

“Well, Sir Leon!” laughed Merlin. “Looks like you have a fan! Lucky you! And thank you for saving my bacon! I thought I was in for it, then. I owe you one!”

“There are worse people to have on your side,” said Leon with a wink. “Maybe others would do well to try charming Audrey rather than upsetting her.” He coughed, somehow managing to make the cough sound like Gwaine’s name, which made Merlin burst into a peal of laughter.

“Stop distracting my patients, Merlin,” said Gaius disapprovingly.

“Sorry, Gaius.”

A few minutes later, once Leon left and Gaius sent several other patients on their way, Merlin found himself alone with Gaius in the failing light. With an impatient twist of one hand, Merlin squinted down at his final wreath. He needed to get this done quickly. He had an important job to do before sundown, not to mention his dried lavender errand in the cellar for Gaius.

He grinned as he worked. Preparations for Yule may be unlikely to remain this peaceful, but he had escaped from a scolding with help from Leon, and it was difficult to be pessimistic when the holly wreaths were heavy with ripe, fat ruby-like berries and the rich scent of pine filled Camelot’s halls and passageways. Soon, festive entertainments, musicians and jugglers and troupes of mummers from far flung corners of Albion would arrive to partake of the feasting. In anticipation, he started to hum a festive tune.

“Do focus, Merlin. You have tied a knot in that ribbon.”

“Yes, Gaius.”

Frowning, he sat back down at the workbench and returned his attention to a tricky part of the wreath, where some ribbons were fighting with a stubborn ivy branch. As he unravelled the knots, his thoughts returned to the issue of the upcoming festivities. Maybe this year, all would be well? Or maybe even better than well? Perhaps Prince Arthur would finally acknowledge Merlin’s true worth with a gift worthy of the sacrifices he had made and his devotion. Perhaps, Merlin would finally get to touch those golden, steely thighs for himself, in an act of worship perhaps not sanctioned by the gods but… Surely, if the gods did not want him to feel the urge to prostrate himself in longing before Arthur’s thickly muscled legs whenever he stripped Arthur’s breeches from him or knelt to adjust the fit of Arthur’s belt, they should not have given Arthur such a heroic build, nor filled Merlin with such a strength of yearning. 

With such pleasant musings, Merlin passed the time, humming an old Yuletide song of his mother’s while his nimble fingers worked.

“Merlin, take more care with the holly berries,” said Gaius. “You are squashing them. Stop rushing. A bit less enthusiasm, please.”

“Yes, but Gaius I need to get out before it gets dark so I can feed Aith--”

“Shh!” Gaius put his finger to his lips. “Walls have ears.”

“Ow.” A holly leaf pricked Merlin’s finger and he lifted it to his mouth, scowling. “I’m going to have blisters after this.”

“More haste, less speed,” Gaius admonished. 

"That makes no sense." Merlin pulled a face.

To take his mind off the tingling of his fingers, he turned back to his happy Yule-inspired reverie. He imagined tables heavy with food, and revellers dancing, twirling and rosy-cheeked from spiced cider and expensive wines from across the waters. Oh, the dancing! Merlin was looking forward to the dancing.

During last year’s Yule festivities, he even had a turn with Arthur. Cares lifted for one night, Arthur shed all his inhibitions and caroused with the serving staff as happily as an Ealdorean milk-maid, lifting Merlin and twirling him and complaining goodnaturedly about how heavy Merlin was and how he must have two left feet because he’d squashed Arthur’s toes quite flat. Merlin loved this memory of Arthur, lips pink with liquor stains, twisted into a wide carefree smile as he whooped and hollered his way through a popular song while the musicians drummed and trilled and Camelot’s people lifted their skirts and they whirled together, breathless and panting, around Camelot’s great hall under the (for once) benevolent eye of its king. Of course, the abrupt arrival of the disgruntled pixie and the subsequent conflagration then put paid to all the festivities prematurely.

But maybe, just maybe this time they would get through the celebrations without serious mishap.

***

What with holly wreaths and lavender missions and what-not, by the time Merlin got out of the citadel, it was nearly dark. Although tempted to raise a magical werelight to avoid tripping over his toes, he decided against it. The mission was perilous enough without drawing attention to himself by using magic.

The dumplings were wrapped in a small muslin cloth with the Pendragon crest in one corner. He kept it close to his side so that they would not get too squashed. He smiled, imagining the little dragon’s eagerness. She was getting so big now! As he approached the cave where she normally roosted, he took one final look around him in the gloaming to check no-one was following him, ducked beneath a fern front with his heart pounding loud in his ears, and knelt onto the cold, damp cave floor. He held out his hand with a dumpling on it, making a crooning noise.

There was a quiet-ish rustle from the back of the cave. A cough raised a sulphurous smell.

“Aithusa?” he whispered. “Daddy’s here! Come, little one.” He made a kissing noise against his teeth to draw her out.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he gradually started to make out the outline of a small, pale head. Its owner was making its way in hops and scuttles towards the cave entrance. She dropped her head and sniffed delicately at his hand before darting forward and grabbing a dumpling between her teeth. From past experience, he knew to hold the food out on the palm of his hand so she didn’t get frustrated and nip or blow little scorching blasts of dragon breath onto his fingers. “There you go.” 

Letting out a tiny purring sound in reply, she held the dumpling with the claws of her hindlimbs and shredded it in great, hungry mouthfuls, shaking her head as if to tame each chunk before it disappeared into her maw. It was a matter of moments to devour the whole thing, at which point she started to keen and nuzzle at his satchel.

“All right, all right!” he said. “There’s more where that came from.” He fished around in his satchel, unearthing two more dumplings and a couple of sausages that he’d filched from Arthur’s breakfast plate when the prince wasn’t looking.

She took all of them with a happy cry that sounded for all the world as if she were saying thank you. Her feast concluded, she half ran, half flew to the back of the cave where she turned three times and sank into an exhausted, snoring heap.

“Sleep tight, Aithusa,” said Merlin, heart melting when she sneezed in her sleep, ejecting twin puffs of smoke from each nostril. “Stay here! You’re safe here. Don’t come back to Camelot, all right? Much safer here. I’ll be back again tomorrow.”

He crept out of the cave into the stillness of the night, making his way with caution down the treacherous path back to the citadel, humming as he walked. The temperature had plunged, and only a thin strip of light in the west remained of the sunset. Above his head, stars studded the velvet arc of the night sky while the moon cast a silvery glow across the path.

So intent was he on not losing his footing that he did not notice the white shadow that flew, silent and true, out of the cave and towards the citadel in his wake.

***

Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon liked to think that he was a patient man and a just employer. But somehow Merlin managed to push all his buttons. Take now, for instance.

“Merlin, I swear there were five sausages on this plate when it came up,” he growled, picking at three plump pork sausages that looked lost on his plate without their friends, spearing one and shovelling it into his mouth before Merlin could pinch it.

They were enjoying breakfast. Or rather, Arthur was sitting at the table in his chambers with a half-empty plate while Merlin did something slapdash with Arthur’s bedclothes.

Arthur took a moment to admire the slender length of Merlin’s legs as he bent to pat down the blankets. When Merlin turned to reply, Arthur turned hastily back to his empty-looking plate. It was all right to look, he told himself. But not to be caught looking.

“ _Five?_ Surely not. That’s too many for just one man.” Merlin smoothed down Arthur’s counterpane and turned his hand to the pillowcases.

It was, but Arthur needed more sausages than that for— well. For reasons of his own.

“Anyway,” Merlin continued. “Aren’t you looking forward to the Yule feast? It’s worth tightening your belt for a while, surely.”

“No I am _not_ looking forward to the feast.” Pushing aside his chair, Arthur stood and drew himself up to his full height. “In my experience, performing artists normally include at least one evil sorcerer with murderous intent in each troupe. And it always ends up being me who has to protect the king and smooth over the inevitable mess afterwards.”

“ _You?_ ” Merlin snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Arthur.

“You’ve never cleaned up a mess in your life.”

“Oh, and I suppose that you’re always protecting the king, hmm?” said Arthur triumphantly. “See? You do your job. I’ll do mine.” He picked up a slice of apple from his plate and crunched into it.

“You must be excited about the jugglers, though.” Merlin did something vigorous with the sheets that made his bottom jiggle distractingly.

Arthur’s mouth went dry and he lost his train of thought for a moment.

“Aren’t you?” Merlin turned his head.

“Hmm?” Blinking rapidly at the ceiling, Arthur tried to remember what Merlin just asked him.

“The jugglers?”

“Oh. No, I am not. Throwing things and catching them does not require great skill.”

“I’d like to see you do it.”

This challenge naturally caused Arthur to demonstrate the accuracy of his aim by hurling an empty goblet, which Merlin ducked to avoid. "See?"

"Cabbagehead." Pouting, Merlin retrieved said goblet from its resting place over by the door

It was true that Arthur was not looking forward to the arrival of the entertainers. Much though he loved a bit of feasting and carousing, especially when it led to him swinging a pink-cheeked and exhilarated Merlin around by the flickering torchlight… Arthur lost his train of thought for a moment while his mind returned to a pleasant memory from the previous year, but was promptly brought back to reality when he remembered the chaos caused by the pixie afterwards. Shaking his head, he stabbed a sausage with some ferocity. He was under no illusions about the whole thing going off without a hitch. Not when every sorcerer in the Five Kingdoms seemed intent on slaying the House of Pendragon and stomping on Camelot’s ruins. No, he would much rather Camelot kept the feasting and carousing down to a minimum. But his father insisted that they needed to put on a show of power and wealth for the benefit of nearby kingdoms.

“Well, I love acrobats and jugglers and knife throwers and all that,” said Merlin, settling the goblet down in front of Arthur with a blinding grin that could have lit up the sky. “I can’t wait!”

“That’s because you have the mind of a child,” said Arthur, trying not to let his voice sound too fond. It was difficult to be too grumpy when someone was smiling in your face with an expression so beguiling that it could charm the birds from the trees.

“Well at least I don’t have the appetite of a pig.”

“I’m the prince, Merlin.” Arthur bit into a sausage and made a show of chewing adding, with his mouth full. “Mmm. If I want five sausages, then that’s what I’ll get. And my pillows need more plumping.”

“Oh, God, of course your royal clotpoleness, _Sire_.” As usual, Merlin managed to imbue the honorific with so much sarcasm that he might as well have been calling Arthur any one of the many other of his invented names. No doubt he was performing an exaggerated eyeroll as he turned back to the bed, hands on hips. “God forbid that you should have to plump your own pillows, _Sire_. or that they should be inadequately plumped. Let me fix that right away. _Sire_.”

A warm flood of affection splashed through Arthur’s chest at this characteristic outburst. Merlin really was a terrible manservant. But in truth, Merlin’s cheek and armoury of sarcastic quips and inventive names disguised a rock-solid loyalty, kindness and quirky wisdom that Arthur treasured beyond mere service (or sausages, for that matter). Arthur did not know how he did not die of boredom during the tedious years that he endured before Merlin arrived on the scene.

With stealth born of long training, Arthur crept around his table and sneaked up behind Merlin, mouth twitching in anticipation.

“Spoilt brat,” muttered Merlin under his breath as he thumped the pillowcases.

“I heard that.”

Abruptly, Arthur shoved Merlin’s arse hard, making him land heavily face first onto the mattress. And Gods, that was a distracting sight in itself. But with a strong effort of will, Arthur ignored the temptation to cover Merlin’s slender body with his own, instead focusing his attention on wrestling Merlin’s ever-present satchel from around his shoulders.

“Stop that, you bully,” panted Merlin, grasping the straps with long, strong fingers.

But he was no match for the Prince, who first distracted Merlin by tickling him soundly in the ribs and then when Merlin was helplessly squirming in his grip, he grabbed the satchel, and scampered back to his table with it.

“Oi!” Merlin whirled round and dived across the room, aiming no doubt for the satchel, but Arthur turned his back, protecting the satchel with his body and fending Merlin off with battle-hardened hands. “Give that back, prat!”

“Ah!” crowed Arthur as he rummaged inside. “Proof!” He dragged out the two missing sausages and flourished them with a dramatic air, dropping the satchel on the floor. “Just as I thought! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Merlin had the grace to wince a little as he came out with his lie. “Ah Um. I was hungry?”

“You really are the worst liar I have ever encountered, Merlin.” To disguise the warmth that bloomed in his chest thanks to this exchange, Arthur shovelled one of the sausages into his mouth and chewed on it, making noises of appreciation. “Mmmm. Delicious," he said between mouthfuls. "Which of Camelot’s many urchins are you feeding this week? Is it Tim, the candlemaker’s boy again? Or Agatha, although how Agatha can possibly be hungry living in a baker’s shop, I really can’t fathom.”

“She has a very fast metabolism,” said Merlin, blinking rapidly, eyes fixed on Arthur’s sausage.

“And you have a soft heart, not to mention a soft brain, to be so easily taken in.” Arthur finished his sausage and licked the fingers of one hand one by one, making a show of it to distract Merlin while he surreptitiously groped around for the satchel with his other hand. “Mmm.”

Merlin gulped and gawped at Arthur’s busy fingers, which meant that he did not see Arthur's other hand hurling the satchel at him. Missing Merlin’s face by an inch, it landed on the floor, skittering under Arthur’s bed with a leathery noise.

“Ahem. I’ll just. Um...” Merlin said, eyes still on Arthur's hands, and his hair sticking up where the satchel had whistled past. "Ahem."

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well, pick it up, then.”

Merlin bent to search beneath the bed, raising his arse in the air. At which inconvenient point, the door burst open.

“My Lord! The jugglers have arri--oh!” said Sir Leon, breaking off mid-sentence.

Arthur started. “Dear God, does no-one ever knock around here?”

“My apologies, Sire.” Sir Leon just looked at Arthur and followed his gaze to where Merlin was still grovelling on the floor, with his breeches pulled tight across the arc of his buttocks. “Aah. I… I see. Ahem. Sorry for interrupting.”

“You were not interrupting anything.” Arthur wrenched his eyes away from Merlin’s pert little bum with an effort of will, mind quite blank for a moment. “Merlin was just um… and I…”

He frantically tried to gather his thoughts to come up for a plausible reason for why he was eyeing his manservant’s buttocks as if they were a feast, and he a famished peasant, which was vastly unfair considering that he was in the middle of his breakfast. But coming up blank, he shrugged helplessly instead.

Leon nodded with a grin that held far too much understanding and backed out through the door.

“ _Merlin!_ ” roared Arthur, thoroughly embarrassed. This... this... this _humiliation_ that he suffered at the hands of his knights daily... all those knowing looks and, in Gwaine's case, winks... well, it was all Merlin's fault. With that face of his. And those ears. And those lips of his. 

“Hmm?” Still on his knees but emerging tousle-haired and flushed from beneath Arthur’s bed, Merlin beamed up at him from beneath a fan of black lashes, clutching the satchel to his chest.

Those lips! Dear God! It was more than any man should have to bear.

‘Just…” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just go and find another sausage, would you?”

“But you haven’t finished that one yet!”

“Go!”

After the door closed, Arthur breathed in and out through his nose for a few moments to calm his annoyingly excitable pulse. Damn Merlin and those ears and those eyes and those lips and that bum. Damn him. Damn him! 

A few moments later, equilibrium restored, Arthur crossed over to the open window. Placing the last sausage on the ledge, he whistled between his teeth.

A few seconds later, a small white shape settled on the ledge outside, chittering. A tiny white dragon placed one hind paw on the sausage as if trying to prevent it from escaping then ducked her head, tearing off a morsel which she chewed, eyes fluttering closed. She devoured the rest of it, keeping up a melodious commentary of clicks and squeaks all the while. When she finished, she nudged at his hand with her snout as if asking for more.

“Shhh! that’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid,” said Arthur, chuckling at her enthusiasm. “Now you’d better leave. It would not do if you were found begging for meat here! Off you go!”

She let out a trilling sound and obligingly flew off.

“Sometimes, I think you can understand everything I say,” he said out loud to the empty room. The little dragon had been coming to his window to beg for food for just over a fortnight. At first, he shooed her away, alarmed, but she was so little and so friendly that he could not bring himself to believe she would ever deliberately harm him. The minor scald on his finger the previous day was down to his own carelessness, and not her fault. 

***

One sunny afternoon a couple of days later, Merlin persuaded Gwen that what they really needed to reward them for their hard work with Yule decorations was one of Audrey’s festive mincemeat pies each, and perhaps a flagon of cider to wash it down with. Persuading Gwen wasn’t the hard part. Escaping, however, required some imaginative fast talking to Arthur. But soon, the pale winter sun that filtered through the cloister glimpsed the two of them tripping down the stairs towards Camelot's kitchens, gossiping all the way. 

“I never want to see a holly leaf again,” Merlin grumbled. He took the last two steps with a jump, eager to reach his destination. 

“There’s a knack to making them without getting your fingers all prickled,” Gwen said, following at a more sedate pace nd hitching her basket up on one arm. “You have to be patient, though, and it’s quite fiddly.”

“Well, I don’t have the knack yet.” They turned the corner and set forth along a long corridor lined with arches and columns. “And judging by this year’s performance I never will. What happened to your finger anyway?” Curious, he nodded at her left hand, which sported a bandaged forefinger.

“Hmm?” Gwen glanced down. “Oh! That! It’s nothing. Well, not nothing, it’s a little thing. Just a little thing really. A… um… Just a tiny little burn. From, you know. Snuffing out candles.”

“Why didn’t you use a candle snuffer?”

“A candle snuffer?” said Gwen, frowning. “Oh! That! What a good idea, I quite forgot. Haha, silly me! Morgana sent me to get some clean red ribbons, and by the time I got back I didn’t have time to go and find some silly old… oh, look! We’re nearly at the kitchens! Are you sure that Audrey won’t mind?”

“Quite sure,” lied Merlin. “She told me to help myself any time.”

She flashed him a knowing look. “There’s no point pretending that you’re in Audrey’s good books, you know. You’re _persona non grata_ in the kitchen after that incident with the dumplings.”

Merlin gaped at her, feeling a deep sense of betrayal. Leon was meant to be trustworthy, Camelot’s first knight, not some tattletale stable boy with a loose tongue and looser morals. “Leon told you?”

“Leon? No, don’t be silly! Leon would never give away a secret like that.”

“I should hope not!” said Merlin, relieved.

“No, Audrey told Sylvia who told Dorothea who told me. Anyway, all I can say is that if you want pie, you need to be sneaky.”

“I am sneaky!” Merlin protested.

Gwen laughed. “That’s why you end up in the stocks, so much, is it?”

They were getting close to the kitchens now, and enticing, sweet spice-laden smells wafted towards them making Merlin sniff the air. His tummy gurgled in anticipation. They stopped for a moment beside the door. Above the din and clatter of the busy working kitchen, some familiar voices drifted out.

“…Geoffrey’s gout doing?” said the first voice – Leon, if Merlin was not mistaken.

Merlin puckered his brow. Geoffrey? What did he have to do with the kitchens?

“So-so.” complained the second voice (Audrey). “The daft old fool refuses to go to Gaius about it.”

“Would you like me to…” Leon’s voice became indistinct and Merlin didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying.

Gwen shooed Merlin off into a convenient alcove. “Go away and hide in there. I’ll handle this.” 

She disappeared behind the door. There was a muffled greeting between her and Leon before then the sound of approaching footsteps getting closer from inside the kitchen prompted Merlin to step back into the alcove.

It was Leon – he walked past, holding a heavily laden bag, glancing into the alcove as he passed and darting Merlin a conspiratorial wink, which Merlin returned with a shrug.

Ignoring Gwen’s earlier orders to the contrary, Merlin crept out of his hiding place and pressed his ear to the door.

“…of course, dear Gwen.” Audrey was speaking. “But these pies are for you, my dear, and for the dear lady, and I don’t want nothin’ to do with that feckless good-for-nothin’ friend of yourn, always pinchin’ my dumplin's, ‘e is, yon prince’s idle-brained servant…”

“Of course not, Audrey,” said Gwen smoothly. “The pies are for me and Morgana, and we wouldn’t dream of letting anyone feckless or idle-brained have any.”

“Not them ones, though. Them’s my special ones... for um…” Audrey’s voice tailed off into an uncharacteristic mumble before she stated with more clarity. “…careful, they’s straight out of the oven.”

“Well, I’ll just take the pies then and… oh, I almost forgot, do you have any special drinks she can…”

“Oh, yes! Would the Lady Morgana like some of that mulled cider she likes?”

“Oooh, yes please, Audrey, dear! Perfect! That helps her to sleep.”

Again, footsteps approached from the other side of the door. Hastily, Merlin scampered back to his alcove and stood pressed into the darkness of the alcove. But it was only Gwen, who joined him with a smug expression on her face, clutching a basket brimming with goodies. The warm scent filled the cool air, and a plume of steam rose from the muslin cloth that covered the foodstuffs.

He opened his mouth to congratulate her on procuring such an ample treasure trove, but she pressed a finger to her mouth, shaking her head, so he closed it again. It didn’t matter after all. The important thing was that they had their contraband. Together, they scuttled back to a quiet, unostentatious area of the castle where serving staff liked to gather to gossip, and sat in a window seat with the basket between them.

Merlin lifted the muslin. Beneath it lay a baker’s dozen of neatly trimmed, hot fragrant pies. The scent was delicious. Mouth watering, he breathed in deeply, inhaling the aromas, and hummed in appreciation.

“Audrey may be a battleaxe, but I will concede that she runs a fabulous kitchen,” he said.

“You should make more of an effort,” admonished Gwen. “She’s very kind, when you get to know her.”

She settled back on the window seat and rummaged in the basket for a napkin, settling it across her skirts.

“You think everyone’s kind, when in reality it’s you who is the kind one, and they’re just reciprocating,” said Merlin.

Gwen pulled a self-deprecating face and selected one of the pies, settling it onto her skirt.

“Anyway, it’s not my fault,” Merlin added as he selected a pie of his own, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger and blowing on it in a vain attempt to make it cool down. “The knights always let me do the dirty work of stealing treats for them.”

“Gwaine, you mean.”

“Mostly him, yes.” Merlin bit into a hot pie, and opened his mouth to let it ventilate, wafting it with his hand. “Hot,” he mouthed around the burning morsel.

“You’ll scald your mouth,” said Gwen, nibbling primly at the pastry.

“So, what are the odds of a quiet Yule this year?” said Merlin as he munched. The pie really was delicious, with just the right amount of oozy fruitiness. Aithusa would love it. He must save her one.

Gwen sighed. “Arthur does seem to attract trouble at this time of year, doesn’t he?”

“Want to place a bet on which group of entertainers is going to include a sorcerer this time?”

Gwen shook her head. “I’m already in a sweepstakes with the seamstresses. I’ve got ten coins on the jugglers.”

“Who’s got the mummers?”

“Magdalena.”

“You’re on to a loser,” said Merlin. “I have a hunch it’ll be the acrobats.” He took another bite of his pie.

“ _Now_ you tell me.” Gwen pouted.

“Anyway, how’s Magdalena getting on with Edward these days?”

She winced. “Not so well. Apparently, he’s in love with Dafydd the stable boy.”

Merlin snorted. “So’s half the castle.”

Dafydd was a handsome new arrival from Buellt with a thick mop of jet black hair, fiery dark eyes, an infectious sense of humour and a smoulder that could melt holes in armour and (it seemed) hearts. If his own heart were not hopelessly ensnared elsewhere, Merlin himself could easily have fallen for him.

They passed their time in happy companionship, dangling their aching feet and giggling behind their hands until the bell rang for curfew.

“That’s it,” Gwen sighed and gazed mournfully at the remaining pies. “It’s been lovely, but I can’t eat another thing. Do you mind if I take a few um… a few extra pies… um. I mean, not that I don’t get anything to eat, of course, it’s just… it’s in case. That’s what it is. In case I get hungry later? Or… Or… or maybe Morgana might? Not that I often get hungry in the night, of course, but sometimes it’s nice to have something to nibble on. I know it’s not ladylike to nibble pies all the time, haha. I just like pies that’s all.”

“That’s a good idea. As long as I can take some too, for Ai… for Arthur.” Merlin took a final swig of the cider and grabbed a couple of pies out of the basket, wrapping them with the cloth.

***

To distract himself and the knights from the imminent arrival of hordes of probably nefarious entertainers, Arthur decided to spend the afternoon doing extra sparring practice. If it achieved nothing else, it would serve to remind his men that their main job was to protect Camelot and her inhabitants, not lounge around quaffing mead and flicking nut shells at one another while some hapless dance troupe or another tried to engage their interest in art. Arthur had no time for art, and neither did his men. They did, however, have a lot of time for mead. Too much time, thought Arthur darkly, automatically picturing Gwaine in the tavern, singing, with a careless arm slung around a glassy-eyed and pliant Merlin. No, if they were too tired to stand, such unacceptable circumstances would not arise. For the good of the kingdom, Arthur hustled his reluctant men into the training ring.

“But, Sire,” protested Gwaine over one shoulder as he shuffled into the ring, boots scuffing on the floor as he pulled his gauntlets on over bandaged fingers. He flicked his abundant hair across from one side to the other. “There are Essetirian acrobats arriving today. On horse back. And jugglers from Gwrtheyrnion. And…”

This. This was the problem. It had to stop. Arthur could see Merlin’s eyes widening in anticipation already.

“I don’t care,” Arthur growled. “Your duty is to protect Camelot, not ogle pretty Welsh milkmaids, however supple of limb. Ah, Sir Leon, there you are. A word, if you please.” He beckoned Leon to one side, looking around to check that they were not going to be overheard.

“Sire.” Leon raised an enquiring brow.

“About earlier, Leon…” Arthur began, face aflame. He bit his lip, not quite sure how to phrase this without incriminating himself.

“Sire?” A puzzled line appeared between Leon’s brows.

“In my chambers.”

“Ah.” Leon nodded, face clearing. “You mean when you and Merlin—”

“We weren’t,” said Arthur, quickly, before Leon could say anything else. “I really wasn’t… I mean, Merlin was just… it…”

“It’s all right, Sire. There’s no need to explain. We all have manly urges from time to time.” Leon gave Arthur’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“But I don’t…” Arthur spluttered. “I mean to say, Merlin isn’t—”

“What aren’t I?” said Merlin, who came trotting up at just the wrong moment, as usual. “Arthur, your pauldron is all wonky.” Without asking, or even hinting at propriety let alone the deference due to the crown prince, he strode right into Arthur’s personal space and started fiddling with the ties on his pauldron.

“Will you stop that!” said Arthur, batting his hand away.

“But it’s…”

Arthur bared his teeth and Merlin belatedly released his hold on the strapping, stepping backwards and lifting his hands in the air. “Someone’s touchy today!”

“ _Some_ one,” growled Arthur, stepping forward, shoulders as wide as he could make them encased as they were in armour, “is an obstreperous peasant with no understanding of court protocol and an overwhelming desire to grace the stocks with his malodorous presence.”

“Malodorous, eh? That’s a big word for you. Mind you, there’s a lot of room for big words, in that big head of yours.” Merlin’s face split into a wide, delighted grin and his eyes danced at his own cleverness.

Arthur could not help being charmed by the vision of delight that this offered, and felt his own lips threaten to tip up at the edges. Fighting to make his forehead pucker into the requisite frown, he dug up his last-resort comeback instead.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Shutting up, Sire,” responded Merlin cheerily. Without the smallest sign that he felt admonished in any way, he resumed fiddling with Arthur’s pauldron.

“You see what I have to put up with?” Arthur started to say to Leon, but when he turned his head Leon and Gwaine were away talking on the other side of the training ring and no longer paying him the slightest attention.

Arthur lifted both hands into the air. “Doesn’t anyone defer to me any more? This is all your fault, Merlin.”

“How is your inability to direct your knights in any way my fault?”

After that, Arthur attacked his training with an even more brutal efficiency than usual. It was time that they all realised who was boss around here, jugglers and acrobats be damned.

***

When finally the jugglers and acrobats arrived, accompanied by a great fanfare of trumpets and much excitement from the children of the lower town, Merlin was almost relieved to see that he could easily identify which one of them had magic.

“It’s an acrobat,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Gaius. “The woman with the blonde hair and red tunic.”

The woman in question seemed to be the lead acrobat. As if sensing their eyes upon them, she executed three swift back somersaults in quick succession, her body lithe and supple beneath the homespun material that she wore. Taking their cue from her, the gaily dressed men and women in her entourage sprang into action, some somersaulting on the spot, while others tumbled, contorted and leaped around her. She landed with a flourish, twisting her body into a winsome pose with a dramatic bow towards the king, before expertly swinging herself into a series of twists and vaults so rapid and delicate that Merlin could barely keep track of her limbs. She lifted her hands high into the air, strutting for the benefit of the crowd and taking a bow. Merlin and Gaius, along with the rest of the crowd, roared out their approval with hollers and whoops and enthusiastic applause.

“Are you sure?” Gaius whispered back. “It seems a pity. She is awfully impressive, isn’t she?”

Merlin hummed out an agreement. But much though Merlin might wish it otherwise, there was an unmistakable taint of magic in the air. As they watched, the woman embarked on another complex sequence of twists and leaps, coming finally to a standstill on the shoulders of a gigantic man with a scar across his face. When the man opened his mouth to grin, he revealed teeth that were filed bare and topped with a harsh, silvery metal. The magic leached from the woman in waves. He could almost taste it each time she turned or jumped. And it would be hypocritical of him to disapprove, he knew that. To be honest, he would not mind if she restricted her magic to augmenting her mundane abilities, impressive as they were. But Merlin had a horrible suspicion that her intentions were not entirely honourable.

She executed a complex bow and blew several enthusiastic kisses in the direction of the citadel’s steps.

There stood Lady Morgana, flanked by the ceremonial guards. She was clad in a lilac gown that brought out the pallor of her skin and wore make-up that complemented the fullness of her lips. Warm furs were draped across her shoulders and Gwen fussed around her where she stood. Morgana smiled, clapping with delight as she blew kisses back at the acrobat

Merlin’s suspicions grew a few moments later when the acrobat’s gaze went beyond Morgana and her jaw set. With a sinking feeling, Merlin realised that she was eyeing Uther, her mouth a determined line that filled him with foreboding.

She was planning something, and it related to the king. Why did the magic users always have to be so hostile?

He sighed. The answer was pretty obvious. Of course they were hostile. What group of people would not be? After being persecuted, hunted down, and killed for simply being themselves? Sometimes Merlin wondered why he stayed in Camelot when instead, he could join his fellow magic users and help them evade Uther's clutches. But then Arthur would do something stupidly noble and brave to remind Merlin of his destiny, filling Merlin with hope for a golden future where magic users would be welcomed in Camelot and the kingdom would be ruled with honour and justice, and that would be that. 

Into these musings arrived the insistent jabbing of an elbow, followed by a cuff to the top of his head. 

“Ow!” Merlin grumbled, rubbing the spot and scowling at his tormentor. "How did you get down here? I thought you were up there with the other royals, greeting the acrobats."

"I walked, obviously." Arthur cuffed him again. "Pay attention."

“I am paying attention!”

“To the pretty acrobat, yes, but not to me, which is your actual job.”

“Huh. She’s a lot better looking than you are, that’s for sure.”

“She may be pretty, Merlin, but she is also talented, which puts her out of your league.”

“I have many talents!” Merlin protested.

“Oh, really? Well, congratulations, you’ve hidden them so well that they might as well not exist.”

“Always the insults,” Merlin sniped, tamping down a stab of hurt. “Were you born this rude and obnoxious? Or did you have to train to get like that?”

The truth should not hurt so much. One of these days, Arthur would know of the many ways in which Merlin served him with his more arcane talents. In the meantime, though, it would be nice if Arthur could for once acknowledge the numerous times when Merlin saved him from certain death on numerous quests and developed, if he liked to say so himself, a witty conversational style that made him an entertaining companion that Arthur liked to keep near. But, no. Arthur did not have a complimentary bone in his body. Not when it came to Merlin, anyway.

“Insolent bumpkin,” said Arthur without heat.

“Egotistical prat.”

“Truculent yokel.”

“Turnip head.”

There was a gentle cough by their side. “Ahem, Sire. I’m sorry to interrupt, but the acrobats are ready to meet up with you before the feast…” said Sir Leon the Tactful, who had the leader of the performers by his side. “This is the Lady Isabella of Essetir, with her companions in the acrobatic troupe. It is said that she can execute a full somersault from the back of a galloping steed and land upon his back, Sire.”

“Of course, Leon.” Arthur bestowed a delighted smile on the acrobats, akin to the sun beaming down on a group of sweet little children on a summer’s day. “What an amazing display. I look forward to you showing us more of your talents in due course.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. The prat could pull charm out of the hat whenever he wanted to –but never when he was addressing Merlin, oh no. Never then. It didn’t help that Leon was flashing him a knowing grin, either.

“With pleasure, your highness,” said the lead acrobat. She took off her plumed head-dress, shaking out a mop of golden hair, and bowed low, to enthusiastic applause from the crowd, the essence of a professional performer without a care beyond the success of her act. “It is always an honour to entertain one whose reputation precedes him. Surely the bards underestimate your handsomeness and prowess.”

“You see, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur drawled. “Clearly the lady is a person of great taste and discernment. You could learn a lot from her.”

Merlin swallowed down his retort, at great personal sacrifice, and watched the sycophantic lady Isabella, if such was her name, through narrowed eyes. It was only because he was watching her so closely that he could detect the calculated edge to her seemingly enchanting smile, and the subtle hint of magic that tainted the air when she eyed Arthur up and down.

He shivered, suddenly cold.

***

The sun’s rays filtered through the high windows of the council chamber, and motes of dust danced dazzling spirals before Merlin's eyes. Every so often, a cloud passed before the sun, offering only momentary relief before the room burst into light again. If Leon's voice were uglier and his vocabulary less extensive. From the number of nodding heads and deep breathing sounds, Merlin was not alone in his overwhelming sleepiness. But at least the soreness of Merlin's feet kept him awake. It was probably worse for the knights, seated as they were. 

“From the parishes of Honiton, Launceston and Taunton,” Leon intoned. “Bounteous tithings indeed. Fifteen score sacks of wheat, twenty sacks of barley, ten head of cattle, and a hundred head of goat. Plus greetings from the parishioners, Sire. Shall I send acknowledgment?”

Sunlight burst into the chamber. Eyelids closed. Heavy heads sagged. Arthur grunted, barely lifting his voice above a groan. It was the twenty-fifth such grain report so far that morning. Merlin had counted them all on his fingers. Perhaps the council would find more contentious subject matter more exciting, or a more punchy method of delivery. But the harvest had been good that year. While everyone should rejoice accordingly, rejoicing was quite hard when your eyelids refused to stay up.

“From the parish of Longbucktonleigh,” Leon droned, “ten sacks of barley, five sacks of oats, ten barrels of the finest mead and a packet of wool. The townsfolk send yuletide greetings for the king. Shall I have Geoffrey send an acknowledgment?”

“Hmm.”

“From the parish of Ilchester, five score barrels of apple cider.”

Gwaine let out an open snore. Morgana’s head fell forward from her hand and she slumped onto the table.

Merlin blinked. If even the apple cider could not rouse Gwaine from his slumber, they really were all in trouble. Jabbing his fists into his eyes, he took in five quick breaths in a brave effort to raise his somnolent heart rate. Perhaps, if he focussed on the back of Arthur’s head... From his vantage point behind Arthur’s seat at the table, he had a fine view of the dark-gold hairs that clung to the back of Arthur’s neck. The Prince’s head began to droop, revealing the roped muscles of his neck and shoulders, muscles that just itched for Merlin to drag his fingers down them, unhitching the knots. How Arthur would groan and gasp as Merlin released all that tension, his eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. Perhaps Merlin’s tongue would be a better instrument. Imagining the salt-rough texture of Arthur’s stubble on his tongue, Merlin licked his lips.

Wait. He shuffled his feet and took in some more sharp breaths, banishing the fantasy which merely added to his discomfort. With an effort of will, he wrenched his reluctant gaze away from the bare skin of Arthur’s exposed throat, only to meet Leon's eyes. The first knight was staring straight at him, still speaking. Without stopping his speech, Leon winked, his mouth quirking up into a knowing grin.

Heat surged up Merlin’s neck and face, the blush extending to the tips of his ears. Damn Leon and his intuition. Damn the man! He was damned well doing it on purpose! Damn his droning, mellifluous voice and melodious tones for winkling out Merlin’s cherished secret like that.

In response, Leon just lifted a meaningful eyebrow a couple of times and nodded towards the Prince. Winking vigorously, he moved his right elbow, then raised both thumbs.

Merlin frowned and shook his head.

Oblivious to the drama that was taking place above their sleepy heads, the knights of Camelot dozed while Merlin crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling, to avoid being caught by any more of Leon’s suggestive eyebrow raises. Where he’d got those from Merlin could not be sure, although there was more than a hint of Gaius about them.

But while he was staring up at the vaulted ceiling, he noticed something that made his stomach clench in dread. For the occasional shadow that blocked the wintry sunlight was not caused by clouds outside the citadel.

Oh, no!

Instead, the source of the shadow sat inside the citadel itself, inside this very council chamber, perched on a wooden beam high amid the ceiling vaults. From this vantage point, a small, white and extremely mischievous dragon every so often launched herself off one beam and settled on another to preen.

As Merlin’s sense of horror mounted, he became aware that Leon had developed a sudden cough. Glancing back at the knight, Merlin bit his lip, torn between wanting to deal with the dragon and being concerned about drawing attention to his predicament.

“From the parishes of Yeovil, Coker, Bradford Abbas and Tintinhull, ten sacks of dried beans…ahem.” Lifting his eyes pointedly towards the ceiling, Leon made a shooing gesture with his right hand and pointed with one finger up at the hunched figure of Aithusa on her perch. “Dried beans, five score sacks of barley and ten score barrels of ale.”

“Me?” Merlin mouthed, pointing to himself with his thumb. He glanced around the room to check that no-one could see their secret hand gesture conversation

Leon continued reading from his parchment and nodded, without pausing to take breath, as he went on. “They send their yuletide greetings, Sire, and give thanks to the gods for the bounteous harvest.”

“Oh, Gods.” said Arthur in a voice that was close to a groan. “Is it time for a break yet, Leon?”

With a panicked look around the room, Merlin realised that he and Leon were basically the only ones awake, and that by continuing his litany Leon was buying him precious time to remove the dragon.

“Nearly, Sire. I have only another ten pages to go.”

“Continue.”

An audible rustling accompanied this command. Several more heads slumped down onto forearms.

“Of course, Sire.” After a quick glance around the room, Leon made that shooing gesture again.

His meaning was clear: Merlin should deal with the dragon, and quickly. Regardless of how Leon knew that Merlin could sort it out, Merlin needed to act before Aithusa was seen. Once Uther got wind that she’d been spotted in the citadel, there would be no way that she would survive. She would be hunted down and slaughtered on the spot.

Shuddering, Merlin locked eyes with Leon again, which is when understanding finally dawned on him. Leon was on his side. Leon knew about Aithusa! He was a precious, precious man and his wonderful voice, which could lull even the feistiest of knights and their entourage into a heavy stupor, a gift from the gods to be treasured at all costs. 

Wasting no more time, Merlin, signalled a thumbs up. He backed as quietly as he could away from the council table, placing a gentle hand on the latch of the door and pressing it open. Taking the wooden steps up to the viewing gallery as quietly as he could when ascending two at a time, he pushed at the heavy oak door at the top.

It was stuck. Typical. He pushed at it a few times ineffectually before whispering a spell to release the lock. It creaked out a protest, making his heart pound in sudden agitation, but then released him stumbling into the gallery that overlooked the council chamber.

He stared across the chasm of the chamber’s upper level at Aithusa where she sat preening on an oak beam.

“Come on,” he cooed under his breath. “Come, little one.”

But Aithusa's back was turned. She scratched at her crest with her hindleg, then stretched up to her full height, head nearly butting against the ceiling, tail swishing against the oak beam with an audible slap that made Merlin wince.

“Shh!” he said as quietly as he could.

“Ahem!” coughed Leon, voice drifting up to him. “From the councils of Martock, Cadbury and Kingsbury Episcopi, a tithing of apples, pears and grapes…”

“Sire, it is nearly time for luncheon. We should adjourn soon,” interrupted Sir Geoffrey, accompanied by a murmur of agreement from the rest of the room. “We can take note of the other tithings later.”

“Just a few more,” objected Leon.

“All right, Leon,” said Arthur, resting his cheek on one gauntleted hand with a barely disguised yawn. “Get on with it.”

Damn it. Merlin was running out of time. Far below, the knights were beginning to get restless. Besides which, Leon would run out of parishes soon. He needed to get Aithusa to come to him quickly.

Lifting the lure he kept in his pocket, he whirled it around his head, whistling as soundlessly as he could, between his teeth. Aithusa shuffled around on her perch, gazing enquiringly at him with her head on one side.

“Come on!” he muttered. 

But she paid him no heed.

"We are being dense today." Breathing deeply in, he closed his eyes to summon the kinship with dragonkind that resided deep in his belly. When he blinked his eyes open, they felt warm. Magic tingled at his fingertips. “Aithusa,” he breathed, adding in a whisper, imbuing his words with all the love and kinship of a dragonlord to his charge. “ _Moró dráko, éla ston bampá._ ”

That did the trick. With a happy cry, she launched herself from the beam, landing in the gallery by his feet and thankfully out of view from below.

“What are you doing here, you bad girl?” he scolded in a whisper.

“Peep!” she said piteously.

“I do feed you! Ten times a day!”

“Peep peep.” She jumped up and down, stretching out her wings. At the same moment, the sound of footsteps on the stair alerted him that they would quickly have company.

“...heard something up here, Sire,” someone was saying. Geoffrey?

“Well, get on with it then, man,” replied Arthur, his voice rapidly getting nearer even as footsteps tap-tapped on the stairs. “Or let me pass.”

Shit. Where was he going to hide her? Quickly, Merlin removed his jacket and placed it over the protesting dragon. “Don’t move!” he hissed.

Just in time. A second later, the heavy oak door creaked. With an effort, Arthur pushed through the door, sword drawn. It fell closed behind him with a bang.

“Merlin? What on earth are you doing up here?” Arthur sheathed his sword abruptly and folded his arms, glowering.

“Um.” said Merlin, praying with every fibre of his being that Aithusa would not escape from the meagre cover offered by his jacket. "Thought I heard woodworm.”

As if on cue, a sudden suspicious scratching sounded just behind him, making his heart thump even faster.

“ _Ah! Woodworm!”_ he sang, to cover the noise up. _“Woodworm, where are you?_ They like it when you sing, Sire. It draws them out of the woodwork, see? _Ah woodworm, woodworm, come to me oh woodworm!_ ”

“Sometimes, Merlin, you astonish even me with your utter idiocy.” For a second, Arthur’s eyes flicked down to where Merlin’s jacket lay before flipping up to Merlin’s face.

“Sire?” A voice came through the door: Sir Cadogan, one of Uther’s favourite courtiers who hated magic users and anything magical. A heavy bang signalled someone trying to open the door. Cadogan, presumably.

Merlin bit his lip. If Arthur and Cadogan decided to investigate the so-called woodworm any more closely, Aithusa would be finished and so would he.

As the door rattled another time, he started mentally composing his farewell letter to his mother. _I’m sorry mum,_ it would say. _I should have left the gorgeous prat years ago, but it’s not easy when dragons everywhere start spouting on about destiny, and before you know it you’re head over heels in love with a murderous hunk with blond hair like spun gold, the roundest bum in all the Five Kingdoms and an acerbic wit that makes your heart skitter around in your chest like a mad March hare._

_Here lies Merlin Emrys_ , his epitaph would say. _Too much in love to escape from his doom. Rest in Peace._ Or should that say rest in prat?

Of course, Aithusa chose that moment to shed Merlin's jacket off her head. She blinked up at him, snout in plain view. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat, and he braced himself for the blow that inevitably would fall on them both.

But thankfully, by some miracle, Arthur turned his back to deal with the approaching knights just in time to miss seeing her.

“Stand down, men,” Arthur yelled, giving Merlin enough time to shove Aithusa behind a wooden casket with one boot while he cast his jacket over Aithusa again. “It’s only my manservant, being even more mentally deficient than usual.”

A sudden clatter of chain mail accompanied a few muffled curses. Reversing several heavily armed guards down a narrow spiral stair was not easy.

Sitting heavily on the casket, more because his legs were shaking than for any other reason, Merlin bent to place his ear to the wall so that by the time Arthur turned back, he appeared to be earnestly tapping the wood and checking for pests.

“It’s a wonder that your head is still on your shoulders, honestly, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur shook his head. A half smile played at his lips before he too, vanished down the stairs.

Now what on earth did that mean? 

*******

It was a deceptively calm morning on the feast day. Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon sat in his chambers, minding his own business. By which, he meant shovelling balled up socks at a grumbling Merlin, who knelt there gathering up fallen items of laundry. Or rather, hurled items of laundry.

“Why you can’t pick up your own socks like normal people, I really can’t fathom,” mumbled Merlin amid his usual litany of complaints about Arthur’s ancestry, his manners, his habits, and personal hygiene. “Can we get on with this? The jugglers and acrobats will be starting soon and I don’t want to miss them.”

“Moan, moan, moan,” Arthur replied, flicking a particularly whiffy sock towards Merlin. It bounced off his head and fell onto the rug where Merlin glared at it as if hoping it would turn into a toad and hop away. “All you do is moan, moan, moan. You should be grateful, Merlin. There’s a queue a mile long of people who would leap at the opportunity to serve me.”

“Oh really?” Straightening up so that he was sitting on his heels, Merlin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Show me this fictional queue of people? I’ll usher them all in so that they can enjoy your malodourous footwear.” As he mimed ushering, his nose wrinkled and his mouth settled in a mutinous pout that Arthur should not find quite so arresting.

“Malodourous, eh? That’s a big word for you.”

“Huh. Insulting my vocabulary again? You’re beginning to run out of ideas.”

“Ideas? You mispronounced _patience_.”

“Patience?” Merlin rolled his eyes. “As if you ever had any of that! Prat.”

“We’ve talked about this, Merlin. You can’t address me like that.”

“And yet, I do.” Merlin grinned, pressing bright crinkles into the corners of his eyes.

“You do.” Arthur couldn’t help smiling back. “You really are a terrible manservant. I should sack you and get someone more decorous.”

“You won’t though. Because they’re all terribly boring. Besides which, at the moment you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who isn't otherwise occupied with Yuletide preparations.”

Arthur grunted in begrudging acknowledgment. The whole citadel had been a growing hive of excitement for weeks now. You couldn’t get from side of the citadel to another without stumbling on alcoves stuffed full of clumps of excited servants or tittering courtiers, exchanging excited whispers behind their hands. Or tripping over mounds of holly and mistletoe, strategically placed to snag the wavering boots of unwary knights. There had been more than one incident involving ivy wreaths and men in full suits of armour, although the blacksmith had been very good-humoured about hammering out dented breastplates and there had only been minimal amounts of bruising. 

“Well, I’ll be glad when this is all over,” Arthur tossed a second sock, which fell in front of Merlin’s nose. “You missed one,” he added, helpfully.

“You utter clotpole. You’re just doing that because you like making me grovel.” Merlin dived for the sock.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Looking at your bony little bottom waggling around holds no pleasure for me,” Arthur lied, watching with a hungry helplessness while Merlin rummaged around with his bum in the air. Merlin had been growing into his breeches recently. All that physical labour had evidently worked wonders for his musculature and there was a wiry sturdiness to the flexing muscles of his arse and upper thighs that made for a rather arresting picture.

Glancing around the room, Arthur managed to get his hand onto another three pairs of soiled socks which he grasped, triumphant, ready for another round. His father had always told him that the only honourable approach to feeling attraction to servants was to _look, but don’t touch_. But while Arthur liked to think that he was an honourable man, he was no saint. Sometimes, the opportunities afforded to a prince who wanted to touch, but would only allow themselves the pleasure of looking, needed a bit of a helping hand.

So, yes, he was just minding his own business on the morning of the apocalypse, perhaps idling a little beyond the start of the festivities so that he could enjoy the sight of his manservant’s not at all bony and indeed rather shapely arse, when the door burst open.

“Sire! Sire! Come quickly!” Gwen’s voice shook in her panic and several strands of her hair had escaped their braids. Her breath escaped her in pants and her chest heaved from her exertion. From the state of Gwen's appearance and her breathlessness, something catastrophic must have happened.

“Gwen? What is it?” Alarmed, Arthur leapt to his feet and cast about for his sword. At the very least there must be a rogue sorcerer in the throne room, or perhaps the citadel was under attack?

“It’s Sir Leon, Sire.”

“ _Leon?_ ” What on earth could Leon have done that would have Gwen in such a state? “What about him?”

“He’s been hit by a truth spell. He’s in the throne room, and he can’t stop talking. He’s telling everyone’s secrets, Sire!”

Sir Leon? Hit by a truth spell? It took a second or two for Arthur to register the full depths of the horrors this situation presented, by which point Merlin was already sprinting out of the door, almost stumbling over Gwen in his haste to exit the room.

***

God. Was there anything that Leon did not know about him? By Merlin’s reckoning, he knew enough of Merlin's secrets to have him burned at the stake ten times over, if he did not die of humiliation first. For a start off, Leon definitely knew about Aithusa. And Merlin’s magic. Worst of all, and the moment that would give him nightmares for years to come, if he survived the night, was the memory of Leon’s knowing wink when he caught Merlin’s wayward eyes ogling the Prince. 

Hell’s bells.

As he dashed towards the great hall, he worked himself up into such a state of stress that he barely had the ability to speak. And by the sound of Arthur’s gasping breaths at his ear, and Gwen’s scampering footsteps on the stone steps not far behind, Leon knew more of their secrets than they would like to see exposed to the whole court, too.

In fact, when they burst through the double doors into the draughty old great hall, it became clear that they were not alone in their distress. Even King Uther himself had a panicked air about him where he sat upon the throne, bellowing commands across the room. A detachment of guards held on to Sir Leon, who was speaking in a voice that seemed somehow amplified to cut clearly across the room, while Gwaine tried without success to apply a gag to his mouth. Meanwhile, Geoffrey of Monmouth was currently struggling against yet another two guards, who were preventing him from launching himself bodily at Leon.

 _“...Sir Geoffrey? Oh, come, now, Geoffers, you can’t disguise your love for Audrey any longer…”_ Leon was saying. An unmistakeable burr of magic amplified his voice, making Merlin shudder. _“It’s sweet, how she saves all the best pies for you, although probably not great for your gout…”_

“How come we can hear him so well?” said Arthur in a cracked voice that verged on hysteria. 

“I suspect magic may be involved, Sire,” said Gaius, at Arthur’s right elbow.

“Of course it is!”

_“... would have thought that King Uther himself would love dumplings so much? Of course, those special corsets help to disguise the effects of all that lard on his waistline…”_

“Dear God!” bellowed Uther. “Will someone please shut the man up!”

“I’m trying, Sire!” said Gwaine, wrestling with Leon who fended him off with ease.

Leon actually giggled then. _“Ah, Gwaine! If you tried as hard at all your jobs as you do when you run away from spiders, perhaps you’d have more success….”_

“I’m not afraid of spiders,” cried Gwaine.

_“Of course not. That’s why you don’t avoid stepping on the corners of flagstones…”_

Before he could stop himself, a giggle bubbled up in Merlin's throat.

“What’s so bloody funny?” bit Arthur from between his teeth.

“It’s just… Leon’s never had this attentive an audience before!”

It wasn’t funny though, not really, not when Merlin’s life was on the line. The secrets given away so far seemed relatively harmless, but who knew what else would be revealed before someone managed to gag Leon?

“So far,” murmured Arthur, “Leon seems to be telling us about whoever he can see or whoever is top of his mind at the time.”

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Merlin replied out of the corner of his mouth, remembering Aithusa and the council chamber. “He’s buying us time, to keep from blurting out any of Camelot’s defensive secrets.”

Meanwhile, another similar detachment of guards was wrestling with a much smaller foe, who seemed to be giving them a lot of trouble despite being about half their height. Upon approaching, Merlin recognised her as Isabella, the magical acrobat. As usual, being right about his suspicions gave him no comfort.

The alarm bell was clanging while inquisitive members of Uther’s court and beyond poured into the great hall through every conceivable entrance, ghouls attracted by the prospect of hearing all Camelot’s secrets spilled by one of the most trusted members of her inner circle.

_“…of course, when Lady Gladys sneaks off to see Lord Douglas in the middle of the night, little does she know that Lord Winslow goes with her and hides behind a screen, watching everything…”_

Amid the collective drawing-in of breath at this revelation came a high-pitched squeal, followed by a number of muffled bellows, but Leon’s magically-enhanced voice still carried over the din. At least, instead of revealing any chinks in Camelot’s defensive armour, Leon carried on bringing out personal secrets. 

“We’ve got to stop him, before he starts giving anything important away!” yelled Merlin.

“Let’s get him out of here!” Arthur yelled back. He and Merlin pushed at the brawling crowd. “Ugh. Gods, it stinks in here! When I’m king, I’m going to make baths mandatory.”

Quite apart from the pandemonium, the stink was unbelievable. Every segment of society was there. Courtiers, knights and servants jostled with townsfolk, merchants, urchins, guild members, whores, innkeepers, farmers, peasants, herders and brothel keepers – even a couple of druids had appeared, curiosity having won out over caution. All vying for a position closer to the king and by extension to hear what his hapless knight was saying.

_“…and here’s Gaius. Gaius, you’re an amazing doctor. But a bit dense. Have you still not worked out why everyone keeps coming to you with burns on their fingers? Or are you deliberately keeping it quiet, haha? Now, Audrey, she was the first one that made me suspicious. Why would a cook not have burns on her fingers, you say? Well, Audrey’s not the one who does the cooking is she? She’s got more more of an executive role, like the king… so why all the burns, Audrey? Isn’t it obvious?”_

“Dear God,” said Geoffrey, who sounded almost as panicky as Merlin felt. “Someone make him stop!”

_“Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, don’t think I haven’t noticed that your fingers are also scalded? Because you have also been feeding the creature in secret! And a host of Camelot’s other worthies, too many to mention.”_

Creature? What creature? Surely he didn’t mean... Oh no!

That’s when Isabella managed to free herself somehow from Percival for long enough to shout, “Enough about clumsy serving staff and their burns! Tell us about Camelot’s defences!”

Gwaine finally managed to get the gag over Leon’s mouth, but his voice still kept coming. 

_“...well, you do of course know that Lady Morgana’s relationship with her fair handmaid, Guinevere, is far from platonic...”_

“Ooh,” said the court.

“Leon!” squawked Morgana. “How could you?”

Behind them an answering squeak came from Gwen.

Morgana and Gwen were… oh no! Poor Arthur! Merlin gripped Arthur’s arm to communicate his moral support, but did not have time to say anything, because still the outpouring of damning revelations continued. His heart sank. It would not take long before Leon’s thoughts turned to Arthur, who would not take kindly to having his affections for Gwen so grossly exposed. “We’ve got to get him out of here!”

“Absolutely.” The grim set to Arthur’s jaw betrayed his agitation.

“Perhaps if I get the acrobat out of the room, then the magic amplification of Leon’s voice will stop?” Merlin offered. Plus, leaving the room would give him ample opportunity to run away if anyone found out about his magic. Or the dragon. Or, for that matter, any of his other crushing secrets.

“Fine. You get the acrobat, I’ll get Leon.”

“Fine.” Merlin redoubled his efforts to push through the crowd, aiming towards the approximate place where the guards tackled the acrobat to the floor.

“Tell us about Prince Arthur,” cried some enterprising member of the throng, damn them. "Who's he been shagging?"

Dear Goddess. This could not continue! Keeping his eyes low so as not to give himself away, Merlin muttered a quick spell that would clear his path without alerting anyone. He inserted a bony shoulder into the melee, murmuring apologies as he passed, just as Leon turned his monologue to the prince.

_“...Prince Arthur. Oh, let me tell you about Prince Arthur. Lovely bloke, of course. But hopelessly in love. Poor man. I suppose I noticed it about… well, it would be a couple of years ago, really.”_

“Quickly, Merlin!” yelled Arthur, his panicked voice just detectable above the hullabaloo. “Do something!”

Oh, no.

It didn’t help that, at Leon’s mention of Prince Arthur, an immediate hush fell upon the court. As well it might. Presumably, this was the good stuff that the nosy bastards had all come to hear. A sudden surge of protectiveness over Arthur’s privacy vied with a nasty, poisonous knot of jealousy that started to pulse in Merlin’s chest.

With a sudden final surge of adrenaline, Merlin hurled himself through the gap between Lady Glynis and a scruffy-looking, leather-clad mercenary. He thrust a hapless peasant out of the way, kicked over a ribbon-seller’s basket, and sent a bevy of caged chickens flying amid a flurry of feathers and clucking before landing in a heap on top of a surprised-looking guard. The guard toppled to the ground like a ninepin. And beneath him lay Isabella, thankfully out cold.

Abruptly, the amplifying spell snuffed out, and Leon’s voice faded to its usual distant drone. Good.

As Merlin blinked and struggled to his feet, a huge shadow loomed over him.

Merlin had never been so grateful to see Percival in his life. “Sir Percival,” he gasped. “Take... take... prisoner. Dungeon! And keep... keep... away from... from Leon!”

“But surely… the dungeon,” said the huge knight doubtfully, holding the now-limp body of the acrobat above his head with one hand.

“There’s magic involved,” Merlin whispered, before something hit him from behind and everything went black.

***

Approaching Leon at a low run, Arthur dived to tackle him to the floor, dislodging several disgruntled courtiers in the process. He didn’t care. This farce could not continue!

“ _Hello Arthur! Have you managed to shag your--_ ”

Not before time, Arthur finally managed to clamp his hand over Leon’s mouth.

“Shut up!” he hissed, relief making his legs feel weak.

But Leon continued talking all the while, speech muffled by a combination of Arthur’s hand and Gwaine’s inexpertly applied gag, and his eyes peeping wild and apologetic over the top, as if his voice were not obeying him any more. At least the words were now inaudible. Merlin must have dealt with the sorcerer. And only just in time. When Arthur thought of the number of his most closely guarded secrets that Leon was privy to, well. He couldn’t help shuddering in horror at what might have come out.

Meanwhile, the prying melee were being herded out of the room by the knights. But one exceedingly problematic audience member stalked across the room, his face set into a glower.

Uther.

Arthur’s heart sank into his boots. Just how much of Leon’s speech had his father heard? Dear gods, let him not have heard the bit about the dragon!

“Release him, Arthur,” said Uther. “I would hear more about this magical creature loose in Camelot.”

Oh, Gods. Praying that Leon had some other ideas up his sleeve, he withdrew his hand with great reluctance.

“ _King Uther, my liege, your esteemed majesty_ ,” Leon began. “ _How very trim you look with that new underwear that you ordered from--_ ”

“Gag him immediately!” Uther cried, contradicting his own order, wild-eyed. “Have him thrown into the dungeon until the curse wears off! Arthur, see to it at once.”

Arthur was the quickest to comply, although several other knights were now crowding around with makeshift gags of their own. “My Lord, might I suggest a more discrete location? Camelot’s dungeons are full of miscreants... criminals... sorcerers! Are they to be trusted with such secrets as—”

“Good point,” interrupted Uther with a harrumph. “Take him to Gaius’s chambers and prevent anyone from entering.”

“At once, My Lord.” Relieved, Arthur manhandled Leon to his feet and propelled him out of the room in front of him, feet dragging like a rag doll. “Gwaine, take his other arm, would you. Merlin? Where is my useless, idle manservant! Merlin? Merlin!”

But Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

***

When Merlin’s eyes finally blinked open, his head pounding like a battle drum, and fire erupting behind his eyelids, the pandemonium and stink of the packed council chamber had gone. Instead, the low murmur of subdued voices drifted through the herb-laden scent of Gaius’s chambers. Reassured, he blinked up at the familiar ceiling and let the drone of conversation waft over him for a minute.

“…feeding the dragon, honestly, everyone was at it, it was a miracle that no-one really knew. That must be the best fed dragon in all of the five kingdoms!” Leon was saying. Although his voice was now free of it's terrifying magical burr, his words still filled Merlin with alarm.

“I know. I was feeding her myself.” came Arthur’s voice. “She managed to make herself look so thin and hungry!”

Even _Arthur_ was feeding Aithusa? Wait. Did this explain Camelot’s sudden epidemic of scalded fingers and the declining lavender oil supply in Gaius’s stores? Why, that sneaky little sausage-beggar…

“But, what is a dragon even doing in Camelot?”

Oh, no. Arthur could never know what or rather _who_ brought Aithusa here! Arthur could never know that Merlin was a...

“There is a dragonlord here, Arthur,” said Leon.

Damn Leon and his ability to know everyone’s secrets!

“But who?”

“I think you know who it is.”

Arthur snorted. “The same _idiot_ who thought I hadn’t noticed how magic assisted us whenever things got desperate, no doubt.”

“The very same.”

“A sorcerer and a dragonlord? It’s a miracle he’s still alive, quite frankly.”

“Not just alive, Sire. Awake as well, if I’m not mistaken.”

There was a long pause. Merlin cursed silently before turning his head to see two enquiring pairs of eyes staring straight at him.

Bugger.

He swallowed. The game was up.

“Ah, it seems our dragonlord has woken up, Finally!” said Arthur, eyes hooded and couched in such deep shadows that Merlin could not interpret his expression.

Instead, Merlin propped himself up on his elbow to gauge his surroundings, only to fall back against the pillows, head swimming. So, Arthur knew about two of his secrets already. His only hope was that his third, most terrible secret remained hidden from even Leon’s perceptive gaze.

Fat chance.

“You’ve been hit over the head, Merlin,” said Arthur softly. “Gaius said not to try to move too much.”

“That’s all very well for you to say,” Merlin whispered. “You’re not the one who’s going to burn on the pyre if Uther finds out who he is.”

“You’re safe with us, Merlin,” said Leon. “Arthur would never hurt you. You know that.”

Deep down, Merlin did know that. It was the lesser of his worries. He swallowed and bit his lower lip while he pondered the greater concern –the one that threatened to break his heart.

“Leave us, Leon.”

“Sire.”

There was the soft sound of footsteps on bare stone and someone settling on a chair next to Merlin. Two clicks signalled the door opening and closing again. They were alone.

Merlin clamped his eyes closed and listened to the painful thud-thud of his heart.

“So, Merlin. Leon told me three secrets about you today. Any one of which would be enough to have you exiled, hanged, beheaded or burned if my father discovered them.”

“He did?” Merlin opened his eyes and let out a breath. “So, now you know about the extra notch I have added to your belt?”

“That’s not one of them,” Arthur growled.

“And which of those punishments are you going to do to me?”

“I haven’t decided what to do to you yet.”

“You can’t send me away. I won’t go.”

“I’m the one that gives the orders around here, remember?”

“Since when has that ever stopped me?” said Merlin with a weak smile that he didn’t even try to pretend wasn’t a bit watery and wobbly-lipped. Three secrets. Arthur said three secrets. The magic… the dragonlord… what was the third? _What was the third?_

“Shut up, Merlin. I’m pouring my heart out here.”

“Shutting up, Sire.”

“As I was saying before being interrupted, today Leon told me three secrets. One I already knew, one I had no clue about, and the third I barely hoped to dream on…”

 _Barely hoped to dream on?_ Merlin’s heart, that treacherous organ, began to swell with an unbidden hope that he scarce could let himself even begin to feel, for if it were dashed that would destroy him. _Stop it,_ he implored his pounding heart. _Stop it now! You can’t afford to feel hopeful!_

“But,” Arthur went on, oblivious to Merlin’s inner turmoil. “I couldn't get your side of the story because you were busy being unconscious. And when I couldn't find you anywhere... I scarce knew what to do with myself, Merlin.”

“Sorry?” Merlin hazarded.

“It seems that one of the acrobats, some scar-faced hooligan of an accomplice, managed to struggle free from Percival and Elyan and strike you over the head with a chair, before running off.”

“Oh no,” said Merlin faintly.

“Oh, don’t worry. Percival caught up with him in the end. He’s in the dungeon. So are the rest of the troupe. Meanwhile, I myself came within a whisker of having my deepest desires unmasked before the whole court.”

Merlin remembered. Just before Merlin got knocked on the head, Leon started to reveal the identity of Arthur’s secret love. Tamping down the infinite well of hurt that threatened to rise up when he considered the idea of Arthur giving someone his heart, someone in Camelot, someone _else_ , Merlin forced himself to consider the situation from Arthur’s perspective.

“What is so horrible about allowing your feelings for… for this person to be known?” he said, his voice sounding thick to his own ears.

“I am not a demonstrative man, Merlin,” said Arthur. He let out a gusty sigh. “I have never… my feelings are not known to… I am not one for words, but more for actions.”

Merlin’s thoughts and stomach roiled painfully.

“But although I did not enjoy the thought of being exposed before I even said anything to my love, that pain paled into nothing compared to my despair when I discovered that y–… that h–… that my love had gone missing. There is something far, far worse that this acrobat sorcerer could do to my heart. Far worse than exposing my… my tender feelings to the gossips and tittletattles and rumour-mongers of the town.”

“Really?” whispered Merlin, his head and heart in such knots that he could not even begin to untangle his own thoughts or feelings.

“Oh, yes.”

“And what is that?”

“Why, to separate me from the subject of my affections… to take them from me, to spirit them away or to hurt them. That would destroy me.”

“And that person would be?”

“Who do you think?” Arthur brushed a lock of hair away from Merlin’s brow with one hand, his expression one of such soft concern that Merlin could barely breathe.

“So, what will you do to me now?” said Merlin, wobbly-lipped and uncertain.

“What should I do, Merlin? What do you think I should do with you?”

Arthur’s face hovered nearer. His eyes were very dark in the dim light that filtered through the window, pupils wide blown and fathomless, surrounded by a thin ring of startling blue. His beauty took Merlin’s breath away. It always had.

“I think you should kiss me,” Merlin whispered. Closing his eyes, he left his fate to Arthur and the gods.

The soft press of Arthur’s mouth on his was the only answer he needed. He melted into it, heart and mind unravelling, dissolving into deep pools of desire. His affections surged through him in a wave of heat that eclipsed even the warmth that magic itself brought and he groaned, the sound muffled against Arthur’s mouth.

Clasping Arthur’s head between both hands, Merlin pulled him closer, revelling in the softness of Arthur’s hair beneath his fingertips, the strength of his flexing jaw muscles beneath his palms. This time it was Arthur who groaned, resting one elbow on the pallet beside Merlin to cover Merlin’s torso with his.

“I see what you mean about words not being your strong point,” murmured Merlin, several wonderful minutes later. “For the longest time, I thought it was Gwen that you fancied, not me.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” said Arthur, and did something incredible with his tongue that made further speech irrelevant.

***

The dawn barely deigned to break on this, Camelot’s shortest day of the year, as the sun waited for the cycle of the year to turn a little further. Those birds that remained in Albion during winter-time huddled, hidden from view. The dank air hung, misty and cold, tendrils of fog drifting through the trees like ghosts.

But in Camelot’s kitchens, the staff bustled and sweated. Puddings steamed, fattened hogs roasted, pies baked and sweetmeats set. Over this industrious scene presided the figure of Audrey the cook, armed as always with her ladle, as stern a figure of authority as ever yelled or glowered over their scurrying citizens. For the feast day now upon them, Camelot’s finest would gather to sup and carouse while the underclass and ordinary people caroused, hollered, squabbled, and quaffed their way through the rations put aside for the occasion.

Into this chaos appeared the jaunty figure of the Crown Prince’s manservant, newly arrived to collect Prince Arthur’s breakfast. After gathering up the tray put aside for that purpose, Merlin paused with his free hand hovering over a selection of goodies, scanning the room for spies. Cook was glowering at a kitchen-maid who had dropped a tray full of blood puddings on the floor. The time was right.

“Psst!”

Merlin swivelled on one heel, frowning in puzzlement when he saw no-one. “Who’s there?”

“Up here!”

Looking up, Merlin blinked. Hidden in a steam-filled hole in the rafters sat Gwaine, who must have crept through one of Camelot’s numerous passages to lower a piece of twine from the ceiling. He put one finger to his mouth, nodding in Cook’s direction.

“Quick!” he mouthed, jerking at the twine. A noose at one end held a dangling cloth bag.

Grinning, Merlin grabbed a handful of sweetmeats and dropped them into the bag. After drawing it closed he gave it a little tweak to signalled that the cache was ready to go. Abruptly, Gwaine hauled up the booty. And not a moment too soon, for Cook, having spotted Merlin, came running over, wielding her ladle with a menacing intent that would not have looked out of place on a battlefield.

Alarmed, Merlin turned tail and fled, glee making him laugh out loud as he ran to evade her clutches, with Arthur’s tray firmly held to avoid spillage, because he would not be popular if he turned up with Arthur’s yuletide breakfast swimming in a pool of small beer. 

As Merlin paused in an alcove to catch his breath, he allowed himself the luxury of brief moment of reverie. His remarkable recovery from the bang to his head, he put down to the remedy offered by spending several uninterrupted and marvellous hours kissing his prince in the privacy of his own room. As a result of which, he had a slightly sore rash on his chin, but otherwise he was keen to resume this pleasant activity as soon as possible, this time in Arthur’s chambers, which had the benefit of being both private and in possession of a warm fire, to boot.

Thus cheered, he turned his steps up the stairs to his Prince’s rooms and darted up them, two at a time, bursting through the door with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. 

“Ah, Merlin,!” purred Arthur, blinking at him sleepy-eyed, his hair a fluffy gold halo. “You’re on time for once. I should kiss you more often.”

“Wouldn’t say no!” said Merlin, shoving the door closed with one foot and arranging the tray on Arthur’s bedclothes. Feeling greatly daring, he followed up by pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, kissing away all the sarcasm and eliciting delightful humming noises from him instead.

“We should thank that sorcerer,” said Merlin, breaking off with some reluctance after severely happy minutes. “After all, if she hadn’t intervened, we wouldn’t be doing this.”

“True!” replied Arthur twisting his hand in Merlin’s tunic, pulling the garment free of his breeches with a jerk. When the soft heat of his hand met the tender flesh of bare flank beneath, both men moaned out loud. “We should give her a reward.”

A few brief moments later, all thought of the sorceress was forgotten, for Merlin lay naked beneath Arthur’s counterpane, with the furnace-like heat of his Prince’s naked body pressed up against his, and both men were far too preoccupied to consider anything else. But later, as their sweat cooled and their heart rates slowed, a pang of conscience hit him.

“Arthur, she will probably be executed unless we do something,” he said.

“Hmm?” said Arthur, who was peering beneath the cover on his plate at the selection of comestibles that lay beneath. With an abrupt movement he selected a pie and bit into it, gravy spilling down his chin.

“The sorceress,” said Merlin, watching this arresting sight. "And all her entourage."

“Her?” said Arthur. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

He took another bite. The gravy trickled into a line, a bead of it forming that Merlin could not ignore.

“Allow me.” Darting forward, Merlin licked up the dribble of gravy from Arthur’s chin before it could fall onto the bedclothes. Of course, he had to trace it back to its origin at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, which led to more kissing, and then additional vigorous activities that left no more room for conversation.

As he lay slumbering in the aftermath, his head pillowed by on the golden skin of Arthur’s bare arm, his own arm flung possessively across the broad planes of Arthur’s chest, Merlin only registered Arthur’s murmur of reassurance because it made his rib cage rumble.

“Hmm?” Merlin lifted a lazy eye.

“I said, don’t worry about her,” replied Arthur, one gentle hand idly carding through Merlin’s hair. “The sorcerer, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we're going to take care of everything.”

“We?” Merlin's happiness dimmed a little. "What do you mean, _we_?"

“You’ll see!” Arthur tapped his nose. “Anyway, Merlin, I’ve noticed something terrible about your mouth.”

“My mouth?” Merlin brought up a finger to poke at his lips. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” groaned Arthur, leaning over. “That’s the problem.”

“Mmm,” agreed Merlin, unable to say anything further because suddenly his mouth was once again occupied, and he could not complain about that.

***

The traditional Yuletide feast opened to much fanfare and excitement, but Lady Morgana, resplendent in a gown of deepest purple velvet lined with lace and with long, draping purple silk sleeves, was disappointed that the acrobats had been ditched. The lead acrobat had been rather impressive, after all. Still, the jugglers were mostly competent, and the country dancers were pretty. She watched with wry amusement, while one of the dancers, overwhelmed at the honour, tripped over her own feet and sprawled in a sobbing heap on the floor.

As the ever-gallant Sir Elyan pulled the damsel to her feet, Morgana cast a single holly garland at her feet to show her approval.

“Thank you, my lady,” whispered Gwen, her hand soft on Morgana’s arm. “Dear Morwenna. She’s only thirteen. The poor thing was terribly nervous about dancing for you.”

“Thank you, dearest Gwen,” answered Morgana, patting Gwen’s hand.

“For what, my lady?”

“Just for being you.” Because there was no doubt in her mind that Gwen made Morgana a better person.

That was one good thing that had come out of the whole Leon’s-curse debacle. She and Gwen no longer had to pretend to be mere lady and maidservant. That evening, Gwen was seated by Morgana's side where she belonged. Similarly, Arthur currently sat with his head so close to Merlin’s that they were practically touching. In case there was any doubt about the nature of their relationship, suspicious-looking bruises littered Merlin’s neck, and his neckerchief was nowhere in evidence.

Morgana allowed herself a secret smile. Arthur always had been possessive, writing his name on all his toys before he was old enough to hold a sword. Little wonder that he had marked Merlin so.

Of course, Uther protested, when they ambushed him to tell him that they each would be sitting with their respective lovers at the feast. But when Morgana flashed a generously sized man’s leather corset, procured from Uther’s chambers, and threatened to show it to the whole court, he became remarkably pliant. May the Goddess bless Leon and his nose for secrets.

She was under no illusions that Uther would be so lenient towards Isabella, however. Indulgent towards his child and ward he may be, but when it came to magic users, his ruthlessness knew no bounds.

She nudged Arthur. 

“Hmm?”

“You do know that Uther will condemn the acrobat to death, Arthur,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“Hmm.” Arthur hummed noncommittal.

“You’ve got to do something.”

“What makes you think that I’m not?” Arthur winked at her.

At that moment, there was a sudden hush, one of those unexpected lulls in the conversation that sometimes occur naturally when a previously noisy room falls silent. Puzzled, Morgana looked around to see if anything had happened to quell the sounds in the room. But no, everything seemed normal. Except…

Far off in the distance, was the sound of Camelot’s alarm bell. There was a shout, and a leather-clad guard ran into the room, face wild, hauberk askew.

“My Lord!” he cried. “The acrobat!”

“Sorcerer!” amended Uther, frowning.

“Sorcerer. She’s escaped! They all have! Camelot’s dungeons are empty!”

“Empty? How?”

“I don’t know! It looks like all the bars have melted on the cells!”

“Melted? Sorcery!” Uther leapt to his feet. “Find them!” he bellowed.

The room erupted. Knights, courtiers, peasants, guildspeople, dancers, jugglers… all of them leaped to their feet shrieking and dashing to and fro. In the midst of this hullabaloo, Arthur and Merlin sat still, smug and faintly smiling.

“What did you do?” whispered Morgana, leaning across the table to speak into his ear.

Arthur shrugged, looking at his fingernails. “Called in a few favours, that’s all.”

Realisation dawning, Morgana let out a peal of laughter. “You didn’t!”

“Oh, no, I didn’t do anything!” said Arthur primly, examining his fingernails. “Did I, Merlin?”

“Oh no, Sire.” Merlin grinned back, the soft besotted expression in his eyes making Morgana feel faintly nauseated. “ _You_ didn’t do anything, Sire. How could _you_ melt the bars on the dungeon cells? It’s not as if _you_ can generate fire or anything!”

"But… won't she just come back again?" said Gwen, a worried line appearing between her brows that Morgana wanted to smooth with her thumb.

Arthur laughed. "I doubt it. Not since M—someone put the fear of the Goddess into her."

"How?"

"Apparently there's some terrifying sorcerer on the loose," Merlin shrugged. "This bloke, dressed in long red robes, had a big white beard and everything, anyway, he went up to her cell, growled at her, promised he would end her family if her face was ever seen in Camelot again, and then vanished in a puff of smoke. Pass the stew, would you, Arthur?"

With a put-upon shake of his head that didn't fool Morgana for one minute, Arthur grabbed the heavily laden platter in the centre of the table and pulled it towards them. Ignoring etiquette, Merlin helped himself to a handful of dumplings, winking at Morgana. His hand dived under the tablecloth with them, and came back empty.

Sorcerer bloke – what sorcerer bloke? And what on earth was Merlin doing putting dumplings under the table? It was almost as if he were…

Hold on a minute. With a growing sense of suspicion, Morgana took the opportunity offered by the pandemonium that still raged around them to twitch back a corner of the tablecloth and peep beneath it.

Sure enough, there, beside Arthur’s knee, sat a tiny dragon, gorging on dumplings. As Morgana watched, the dragon belched, letting out a plume of steam, and settled down with its snout beneath one wing for a nap.

“Best Yule feast ever,” said Gwen admiringly, her arm warm beneath Morgana’s fingers.

*END*

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The legends of King Arthur belong to us all, and I’m not getting paid for this work.


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